Page 59 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

Don’t fall for it, Lola. It’s an act. He’s good at this, remember? Charm is his weapon of choice.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the icy chill that has settled over my heart. “I was starting to think you’d moved into the garage.”

“Just catching up on some work,” I say, my voice flat, devoid of the usual playful banter that has become our default setting.

“Right.” He casts me a sideways glance, his smile faltering slightly. “Work. Of course.”

He turns back to the stove, the silence stretching between us, thick and heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of the unanswered questions swirling in my head.

Ask him. Show him the picture. Demand an explanation.

But the words don’t come. Pride, or maybe just plain fear, holds me back. What if he denies it? What if he laughs it off, dismisses it as a harmless flirtation? What if… he confirms my worst fears, shattering the fragile hope I’ve been trying so hard to ignore?

I couldn’t handle that. Not tonight.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Cole says, his voice breaking the silence. “I made your favorite. Pasta puttanesca.”

My stomach growls, betraying my carefully constructed façade of indifference. Pasta puttanesca. It is my comfort food, a recipe that’s been passed down from my grandmother, a reminder of family, tradition, and a time before my life became a tangled mess of heartbreak and broken promises.

He remembers.

The thought, small and insignificant, lands like a butterfly in my chest, its delicate wings brushing against the hardened shell I’ve built around my heart.

“Thanks,” I mumble, pulling out a chair at the breakfast bar, my gaze fixed on the sleek marble countertop—anything to avoid looking at him or the way the kitchen light glints off his dark hair, the way his shoulders move beneath his T-shirt, at the way his presence fills the room, making it feel less sterile, less lonely, less… empty.

“So…” His voice is laced with a forced cheerfulness that grates on my nerves, “How was your day? Manage to crack Tane’s latest strategy after your painting session?”

“It was… productive,” I say, my voice clipped. “Tane’s predictable. He’s overconfident. We’ll beat him again.”

“That’s my girl,” Cole says, his voice softening. He places a plate of pasta in front of me, the aroma of garlic and olives making my mouth water. “Always thinking two steps ahead. Just like old times.”

He sits down beside me, his thigh brushing against mine, the heat of his body radiating through his jeans. I pull away, putting a safe distance between us, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t pretend that everything’s okay.

He doesn’t push it. He just eats his pasta, his movements measured, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the wall. The silence stretches between us, punctuated by the clink of forks against ceramic plates, the hum of the refrigerator, and the distant roar of the ocean.

Ask him about the picture. Confront him. Get it over with.

But I still can’t muster up the courage. Fear, thick and suffocating, chokes my throat. I don’t know if I could handle the truth.

“I’m going to bed,” I announce, pushing my plate away, half the pasta untouched. I stand up, my legs shaky and my head spinning with emotional exhaustion.

“Lola, wait…”

“Don’t,” I snap, my voice sharp, the words a shield against the vulnerability that threatens to engulf me. “Just… leave it, Cole.”

I turn and flee, his voice, a low rumble of confusion and something that sounds like… pain, echoing behind me.

Back in the sanctuary of my freshly painted room, surrounded by the cheerful pink walls that now felt like a cruel mockery of my own shattered hopes, I sink onto the bed, the weight of his betrayal crushing me.

And as I lie there, the scent of Cole’s cologne clinging to the sheets, a painful reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve foolishly allowed myself to hope for, I remind myself that I’ll never let him hurt me again.

“Fuck it. I’m not that naïve teenager anymore. I can handle the truth. And I deserve some damn answers.”

A hot, pulsing wave of anger courses through me, erasing the last vestiges of my self-pity and replaces them with a fierce determination. I won’t let Cole Lawson play me for a fool. Not again.

I storm out of the bedroom, the cool polished concrete a shock against my bare feet. Cole’s oversized T-shirt is a flimsy shield against the storm raging inside me.

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